


Just Another Word

by ignipes



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-09-24
Updated: 2005-09-24
Packaged: 2017-10-02 21:37:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ignipes/pseuds/ignipes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the first day of winter holidays, Sirius Black attends a funeral, tells a lie, insults a child, is rude to guests, and runs away from home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Another Word

Sirius doesn't care about the woman in the casket. Part of his mind hears the voice droning -- some old Ministry official who looks like he's got one foot in the grave himself -- but he catches only scattered words and phrases. The Black family mausoleum looms before the crowd of mourners; its polished dark stone manages to gleam despite the dull grey sky and whirling snowflakes.

About fifty witches and wizards gather around the coffin in formal robes and sombre hats, fur-lined cloaks and smooth leather gloves. Aunt Elladora stands apart in her odd tricorn hat. _She wears it to hide her horns,_ Sirius had solemnly told Regulus years ago. One week's punishment under _Silencio_ had almost been worth the look on Elladora's face when six-year-old Regulus innocently asked whether Auntie's horns were curved like a bull's or straight like a unicorn's.

"…a respectable and well-liked society matron…"

He bites his lip to keep from snickering; there isn't a single person at the funeral who cares that the old bat is gone. It is simply another social roll call for the pureblood families, another chance to prove that their customs and traditions hearken back to the fourteenth century. They all know the dead woman never did anything in her life except marry a wealthy man who had the decency to die young, and dedicate her considerable resources as well as her less-then-considerable intellect to bombarding the Ministry with mad ideas for anti-Muggle legislation. The proposal to sterilise Muggles who impregnate innocent witches? That was Cousin Araminta. A crusade to legalise Muggle-hunting, for the "preservation and protection of the purity of the magical race"? One of Araminta's finest ideas, to be sure. The hefty fine to be demanded of any magical young person wishing to marry a Muggle -- well, that one was nearly passed, defeated by a narrow margin, and to this day Sirius' relatives will still click their tongues and shake their heads, saying regretfully, _If only the Meliflua Marriage Bill had passed, we wouldn't be having these troubles._

That's probably how she wanted to be remembered, anyway, as the woman who nearly succeeding in sentencing the wizarding world to generations of inbreeding.

Sirius recognises nearly everyone here. He's related to most of them and will probably be related to the rest in the near future. The entire Lestrange family is gathered directly opposite him, looking like a collection of pewter gargoyles despite wearing the finest garb that money can buy; Bellatrix is standing a few feet away from her husband and his family, staring into space and smiling slightly. She seems to sense Sirius' eyes on her and turns deliberately to stare at him, her smile widening. He wants to squirm and scratch his neck, but his mother is standing to his right with an impossibly stiff posture, as still and proper as a wax figure. Sirius hasn't noticed before, but he is now a good four inches taller than her, despite the heeled shoes that made her wobble as she crossed the frozen grass to the mausoleum. Sirius marvels at the difference in height. He wants to recall it the next time they stand face to face.

"…an admirable dedication to the preservation of the sanctity of magical culture…"

Beside the Lestranges is the fair-haired Bones clan; Juliet Bones catches Sirius' eye and gives him a look of long-suffering commiseration. He rolls his eyes in reply, and she suppresses a smile. He likes Juliet, even if she has broken James' arm not once, but twice, in Gryffindor-Hufflepuff Quidditch matches. He feels oddly reassured that he is not the only normal person stuck spending the first morning of Christmas holidays at this miserable funeral.

"…tireless work in the legislative process, and innumerable contributions…"

Regulus, to his left, is restless, his gaze flicking over the mausoleum and graveyard, barely glancing at the black-draped coffin. That morning, before the funeral, Regulus had come into his bedroom while Sirius was straightening his tie. Grinning ghoulishly, Regulus had said, _Six weeks. That's how long it took to find her. Nobody noticed she'd died for six weeks, and when they did find her, she was all shrivelled and dry. Mummified._ He had made a hideous corpse-face, dropping his jaw and letting his eyes roll back, his tongue loll out.

Sirius had laughed and folded his collar down crisply. _That's disgusting,_ he replied, grimacing.

But he was thinking: _six weeks is a long time for nobody to notice._

"…a great hope for the future of the wizarding world, and the will to see it done…"

He hadn't intended to set his mother on edge first thing in the morning. Sometimes, of course, he did it on purpose, but not this time. All he'd done was ask why they always travelled about in the great rattling coach drawn by four foul-tempered Aethonanian stallions who must be Disillusioned and hexed into submission before they can even turn the corner of Grimmauld Place. Standing on the front steps, looking at the restless horses with their wild eyes and stamping hooves, Sirius had noticed the way they strained against the reins and simply remarked that a car would be much easier.

_There is no call for such impertinence,_ his mother said calmly, pulling on her long black gloves. His father had held out his arm to help her into carriage. Sirius could see the lump of her wedding ring under the black silk, as well as the ridge of the diamond bracelet she always wears. His father didn't say a word.

One of the horses whinnied shrilly, and the cry was quickly muted by a Silencing Charm from the driver's wand. The horse continued to snort hot bursts of steam into the winter morning.

His mother said nothing during the drive to the graveyard, but she sniffed delicately and refused to look at him when the carriage lurched awkwardly around a corner.

He shifts his weight and feels his mother's quick, hard glare. There are a few hundred things Sirius would like to be doing today, and standing in a frozen graveyard watching Narcissa yawn behind her dainty white handkerchief is nowhere on the list. A blue ribbon tied into Narcissa's pale blonde hair is the only spot of colour in the graveyard; Sirius focuses on it and tries to think warm thoughts. His feet are starting to feel the cold through the thin dress socks and leather shoes, and he hadn't been able to find his gloves that morning.

"…protection of the wizarding world from destructive non-magical influences…"

Sirius stifles a snort and feels his mother's glare again. He is willing to bet -- if there was anyone here who would take the wager -- that half the people gathered around Araminta Meliflua's ornate coffin can count on one hand the number of Muggles they've met in their lives. He wonders if Regulus knows any Muggles at all. He can't think of any time or place in which his younger brother would have met anybody who isn't a wizard.

Then Sirius frowns as his maths catch up with him, and he realises that _he_ can count on one hand -- well, one hand and a few fingers, almost two hands really -- the number of Muggles he's actually met in person. He's been introduced to a few clueless parents in Diagon Alley, amused at the way they gape stupidly at the storefronts and stumble over goblins while their children blush in humiliation. And he knows that some of the people he has met at Remus' house during summer holidays are Muggles. At least Remus insists they are, but Sirius can never tell who is magical and who isn't.

That first visit, during the summer after second year, when he and James and Peter had still been a little awed by their werewolf friend and more than a little wary of the steel cage in the garden, the boys had sprawled on the grass behind the house, talking and playing cards, while Mr. Lupin and his friends sat in the kitchen drinking and laughing late into the night. Sirius had surreptitiously checked his pocket watch every twenty minutes or so, his anxiety growing as ten o'clock passed, then eleven, then midnight.

Finally, he'd cleared his throat and asked as casually as he could, _Won't your dad be angry that we're still out here?_

Remus had laughed and said, _No, of course not, why would he?_

In that moment, lying on the cool, prickly grass, surrounded by the sounds of the night-time and the voices filtering through the window, Sirius decided that he would never invite his friends to visit during the holidays. Even if he lied to his parents and told them Remus wasn't half-blood, even if James could manage to stifle his laughter when he walked past the house-elf heads on the wall, even if Peter promised not to improve the Black family portraits with pink ringlets and purple parakeets as he had the paintings in the second floor corridor at Hogwarts…it wasn't enough. They went to Remus' house, where Mr. Lupin let them do whatever they wanted at any hour of the day or night. They went to James' house, where Mrs. Potter baked dozens of biscuits and Mr. Potter helped them set up a Muggle camping tent in the back garden. They went to Peter's house, which was always shifting, changing and growing because Peter's parents were Pettigrew &amp; Pettigrew, Magical Architects, and where Mr. Pettigrew's jokes kept the boys howling and gasping for breath all through supper.

When asked about his own home, Sirius only said dismissively, _Nah, it's no fun. Just a bunch of stuffy rooms and breakable things._ In his mind, he heard his father talking about the pride of the Black family, the respectable heritage and proud, pure history, the name that Sirius is destined to carry and the home he is to inherit and maintain for his children's children. _I swear, all the furniture's about a million years old and the house-elves scream like banshees if you even look at a floor they've just cleaned._ His friends hadn't asked again.

Regulus touches his arm and Sirius starts. The funeral is over. The pallbearers are carrying Araminta Meliflua's pre-mummified corpse into the mausoleum. Narcissa is leaving the graveyard on the arm of her fiancée, Lucius Malfoy. Bellatrix trails behind them; she turns and winks at Sirius. He scowls, then follows his parents to the carriage.

The grey and dirty London snow collects in patches on the ground and dusts the tops of the tombstones. A carved white angel smiles serenely and reaches upward. Sirius glances up, without meaning to, but frowns. She isn't reaching for anything except the barren branches of an oak tree.

In the carriage, Sirius slumps against the leather seat, ignoring his mother's disapproving frown, and watches London through the window. The carriage is charmed to move through the Muggle traffic unnoticed and unimpeded. He wonders what would happen if the charms failed -- the squeal of tyres, shouts, broken glass, stampeding winged horses, probably even a photo in the _Prophet_ tomorrow morning under the headline 'Black Family Disobeys Two Dozen Secrecy Statutes.'

Sirius smiles to himself.

"Elladora is having a ball for the New Year," his mother says, slowly removing her elbow-length gloves. "I have assured her that we will attend."

Sirius doesn't bother to wonder where his mother found time to receive and accept an invitation during the funeral. It is one of the many secrets of socialising the women of the Black family are born knowing.

His father isn't listening, but he replies promptly, "Yes, of course we will."

"Regulus, those robes are dreadfully outdated. Why did you not mention that you need new formal robes? We will send one of the elves tomorrow."

Regulus looks down at his attire and frowns. He glances at Sirius, who shrugs. He can't see anything wrong with the robes, but their mother's pale blue eyes can spot a speck of dust on fabric from one hundred paces.

"And Sirius, you must trim your hair. You look like a Muggle-loving hooligan. It is disrespectful and unbecoming."

Sirius reaches up automatically and brushes his hair back from his eyes. He's never understood why, in his mother's eyes, venerable old wizards can have long, scraggly cave-man hair, but if young wizard has so much as a lock out of place, he is a disrespectful, Muggle-loving hooligan. Sirius almost grins, remembering the upturn of his mother's nose and the delicate way she lifted her eyebrows after meeting James and Mr. Potter for the first time in Diagon Alley. If tidiness of hair is any indication, then Mr. Potter and his son are the King and Heir Apparent of Disrespectful Muggle-Loving Hooliganism. And, Sirius thinks, they would both revel in that title. He makes a mental note to write to James when he gets home.

Then his mother's words register in Sirius' mind. "New Year's?" he blurts.

"Yes, that is what I said."

"I can't. I have -- I already have plans."

"Oh?" His mother raises a single sculpted eyebrow. "Is that so?"

"Yes," Sirius snaps. "That _is_ so." He feels rather than sees Regulus turn to look at him. His mother's other eyebrow goes up, and his father slowly looks away from the window. _Oh, bollocks._ "The Potters are having a New Year's party," he explains quickly, unashamed of the bald-faced lie. He reminds himself to warn James of a possible request for verification. Mr. Potter is good about things like that; he never hesitates to join in schemes against Sirius' family. Sirius feels guilty about asking him, but there is no way in hell he's going to even _mention_ Mr. Lupin -- who is actually having the party -- to his parents.

His mother is examining one long polished fingernail. The pale winter sunlight coming through the carriage window highlights the silver in her blonde hair. "One would suspect that you value these Potters more than your own family. Surely they can survive one holiday evening without your gracious presence?"

Sirius opens his mouth to retort, then stops.

_You have to think, Sirius. You never_ think.

He closes his mouth, his stomach twisting in a guilty knot. After a tense moment, he mumbles, "They invited me ages ago. I've already told them I'll come."

"Even so--"

His father interrupts, "We shall discuss this at home."

The remainder of the journey is silent. Sirius stares out the window, peering through front windows to see warmly lit dining rooms and families sitting down to Sunday lunch. A solitary walker is startled when the carriage passes, and Sirius imagines the look of confusion on his face when he looks up to see nothing on the road. He wishes he were out walking in the cold grey afternoon, wandering the streets with no purpose but to stare through windows at trees, garland and fairy lights.

He tries to formulate an argument, contemplates feigning illness or a disfiguring haircut, anything to convince his parents to set him free for New Year's, but his mind is spinning and tripping over itself, constantly returning to a single desperate thought: _I have to go. I have to. I can't miss this. I have to go._

The invitation had been a surprise, the brightest spot in the bleak winter. Even after the terrifying conversation in which Remus finally forgave him, Sirius held his breath for the last three weeks of the term, too afraid of disturbing the fragile peace, too scared that Remus would change his mind and decide that keeping Sirius as a friend simply wasn't worth the effort.

Sirius waited, though he didn't know what he was waiting for, and he watched. He collected little gestures and words, tokens of the return to normalcy -- Remus borrowing his quill, sitting next to him in Charms, joining in as they teased Peter about his pretty new girlfriend, rolling his eyes when James got into yet another fight with the Slytherin Quidditch captain -- until one afternoon James had smacked him on the head -- literally -- and said, _Padfoot, you can let it go now. Moony doesn't hate you._

But he hadn't believed it, not really, until he found Remus studying in the library one day, tapping his foot and singing quietly to himself while he read. Sirius froze between the stacks, staring in amazement. He didn't want to disturb his friend, but his heart raced as he strained to listen.

_And feeling good was easy, Lord, when he sang the blues._

One of those Muggle songs, probably, the songs that Remus knows by heart and plays on the record player his father has charmed to work at Hogwarts.

_You know feeling good was good enough for me._

This singing to himself, this is something Remus does only when he is relaxed and absolutely certain nobody is watching. Sirius had forgotten what it was like to see Remus completely at ease, slouched in his chair with his feet up on the table, his hair sticking up almost as badly as James' in its usual end-of-term disarray, reading and writing at the same time so his notes are scrawled illegibly across the parchment, ink stains on his fingers, singing under his breath: _But I'd trade all of my tomorrows for one single yesterday, to be holding Bobby's body next to mine._

_What song is that?_ Sirius had asked.

He hadn't realised he'd spoken aloud, too loud, until Remus jumped, and Sirius wanted to turn and flee through the library. But then Remus smiled and launched into a story about a Muggle singer, some American woman who died, and Sirius sat down on the other side of the table, hesitant and stunned with relief. He only half-followed the story, reminding himself silently, _This is Remus. No reason to run scared. This is just Remus, you bloody fool._

Then suddenly Remus had said, _Dad's having a New Year's party. You're going to come, right?_

Sirius considered, for the briefest second, telling Remus that he was mistaken. There was no way Mr. Lupin would have invited Sirius. No way on earth. But Remus probably didn't know what Mr. Lupin said to Sirius in the antechamber of Dumbledore's office, didn't know that Sirius had waited there, sick and scared and furious, leaning against the wall, listening to the muffled voices, not daring to look up when the door opened and he saw a pair of beat-up trainers stop just in front of him.

Sirius flinched when Mr. Lupin gently lifted his chin and looked at him with those electric blue eyes -- _Remus must have his mother's eyes,_ Sirius remembers thinking ridiculously -- and said, in that quiet, calm voice, _I hoped you were different. With all the vile and hateful people in the world, do you think he needs his closest friends to treat him like a monster? I thought you were better than that._

The carriage jerks to a stop in front of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, and Sirius climbs out with renewed resolve. Mr. Lupin is one of the few adults that Sirius actually likes, and he's not going to let his parents ruin this chance.

_Besides,_ Sirius thinks, following his mother into the dark entrance hall, _a night at the Lupin's is a thousand times better than being stuck at that creepy old crypt of Elladora's._

He remembers playing with Narcissa in Aunt Elladora's music room, a room where the piano is never opened and the sheet music could have been penned by Beethoven himself but nobody would know it. It was a good place to play because the adults wouldn't bother them for hours. They were playing Prince and Dragon -- Narcissa was older and she always made Sirius be the Prince, even though he wanted to be the Dragon -- when they heard a shriek from the parlour, a _snap_ like a whip, the clatter of a tea tray, then saw the severed head of a house-elf roll past the open door.

_That's Tunko,_ Narcissa had said. The head rolled out of sight, and Narcissa lunged at Sirius and bit his arm, growling and giggling, _Ha! I win. You're dragon food. Dragon toast!_

His mother pauses on the staircase, looking down at her sons as they remove their winter cloaks. "You will change and come down for lunch at two o'clock," she says, then turns and climbs the stairs, the click of her heels echoing in the hall. Sirius' father has already vanished into his study and closed the door firmly behind him.

Sirius goes up to his own room, wishing he had kept his cloak with him; the interior of the house seems colder than the winter air outside. He shuts his bedroom door too energetically and winces, but he hears no footsteps in the hall or scolding voice, so he crosses the room and collapses on the massive bed, staring up at the dark blue canopy for a few moments. The bed, as always, is perfectly made, the corners so sharp they could be turned over knife blades. Sirius squirms around a bit to muss it up. He removes his tie and tosses it on the floor, drapes his formal robes over the desk chair, and kicks his shoes off to a corner.

When he has created as much mess as his current outfit allows, Sirius feels a little better. His schoolbooks have been neatly arranged on the desk by the window, ink bottles and quills in rigid lines. The wardrobe is closed, but Sirius knows that if he opens the door he will see his clothing hanging neatly. Every holiday is the same. He comes back from school and by the time dinner is over, the house-elves have ordered, organised and stored every last item from his trunk. Sirius has known, for as long as he can remember, that he can't hide anything in his room. The house-elves always find it.

There are still twenty minutes until lunch, so Sirius goes to his desk to write to James. He warns James about the impending New Year's party complication but can't think of anything else to say. All he can think, as he leans his chair back on two legs, is how he wishes his room could stay just a little messy, for just a little while. Not like Remus' room, where entire armies could be lost in the clutter, and not quite like James' room, in which Mrs. Potter's penchant for floral patterns clashes violently with James' own preference for garish posters of Quidditch teams and voluptuous Muggle film stars. Peter's room would be grand, with its constantly shifting wallpaper patterns and sconces that sometimes chat amongst themselves in Afrikaans ("Boer sconces," Peter had explained offhandedly), but Sirius isn't sure he could get used to it. There are so many overlapping charms on the walls, furniture and doors that you never know quite what will happen. James never sleeps well at Peter's house, not since that night his bed spontaneously transfigured into a self-locking wardrobe. James spent half the morning trapped inside, pounding on the door and shouting obscenities, while Mr. Pettigrew and the others laughed themselves sick on the outside.

The chair legs thump on the floor when Sirius sits forward. He looks at the few scrawled lines on the parchment, then adds, _See you soon,_ and signs, _Padfoot._ He blows on the ink to dry it, then folds the letter and tucks it into his pocket.

He unrolls another piece of parchment onto the desk and dips the quill in ink, then pauses, not quite sure whom he intends to write. The ink drips onto the blank sheet and Sirius frowns. He doesn't even like writing letters. Hastily scribbled notes are the extent of his usual written correspondence. The silence of the house closes around him, and he looks up and out the window at the dreary street, the dark afternoon. He can write to Andromeda, he thinks, ask about Dora and maybe promise to visit sometime soon; it will give him an excuse to plan a temporary escape. He can write to Remus and -- what? _Went to a funeral today. It was cold. I'm still sorry. Looking forward to the party and your dad's band playing. See you soon._

Sirius has never heard music in this house. If he has, he can't remember it. His parents entertain with cocktails and dinner parties, with only the clink of cutlery and the sound of sanctimonious toasts, leaving the more extravagant balls to their friends and relations. There's a piano in the house, but Sirius is fairly certain it hasn't been played in easily a century; there are probably things living in it. He thinks about going down the stairs singing aloud, choosing some lowbrow Muggle song that will make his mother's eyes widen with shock and his father launch into a lecture about the dangers of overexposure to non-magical culture. Sirius wrinkles his brow in concentration as he tries to remember the words to one of Remus' songs. But they all scurry just out of reach, even the ones Remus that plays over and over again in the dorm.

The idea dies almost as soon as it is born. Sirius can hear, even in his imagination, the sound falling flat from his mouth, withering on the dark wood and crumbling rather than echoing when it strikes the walls.

He watches a man emerge from the house across the street, wondering idly if the man ever thinks it odd that his gaze slides over Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, that he cannot focus on the space between Number Eleven and Number Thirteen though he knows a house is there. The neighbour pulls his coat close against the cold; his face is hidden behind a scarf. He walks briskly away.

The clock chimes downstairs, a mournful tone that resonates through the house. Sirius jumps, splattering ink on the blank page, and curses. He stands quickly, scraping the chair on the wooden floor, and hurries out of the room. Halfway down the stairs, he realises that he hasn't changed and he isn't wearing shoes, but takes the chance that rumpled clothing and sock-clad feet will be excused more readily than tardiness.

His parents and Regulus are already seated in the dining room, his mother and father at opposite ends of the long table. Sirius slides into his chair across from Regulus, aware of their eyes on him. The food appears on the china -- potatoes, asparagus and some dark meat -- and wine fills the silver goblets. Three sets of eyes watch Sirius' father take the first bite while he pretends not to notice they are waiting. After he has swallowed, the others take up their forks and knives in silence.

The next few minutes are filled with only the sound of silverware on china, careful chewing, the faint popping noise that Regulus' jaw sometimes makes.

Sirius' father clears his throat, then announces, "Lord and Lady Dolohov will be here at eight. You will show them the proper respect and greet them promptly." He is looking at his wine goblet as he speaks, and his voice is perfectly neutral, but there is no question that he is addressing Sirius.

Sirius meets Regulus' eyes across the table briefly. Regulus raises an eyebrow in amusement.

Sirius' mother says, "That will be lovely. We haven't seen them in quite some time. Apparently, they enjoyed their stay in France. I do hope you take an effort to tidy your slovenly appearance."

Sirius knows without turning that she isn't looking at him, either. He takes care to chew very slowly; if he finishes before the others, he'll have to sit motionless while they eat, so it is better to be occupied throughout the meal.

He is acutely aware of his mother's rigid posture, the way her hand hovers by her wine goblet for a second too long, and he knows she is preparing to speak again. His stomach churns, and he takes a sip of wine. It is unpleasantly sweet and slightly metallic, the undeniable characteristics of wizarding wine. Before dining at the Potter's, Sirius hadn't even known that Muggles made wine, much less wine that doesn't taste like grape juice used to rinse the inside of a rusty iron vat.

"Perhaps you might explain why you feel it necessary to forgo your familial responsibility for another gathering," his mother says, her voice deliberately even. She isn't eating. Sometimes Sirius thinks that his mother exists on nothing but air and dust, her nearly translucent skin and sharp bones so delicate that a stiff wind would cause her to disintegrate. But the impression never lasts long. Her long, thin fingers grip the goblet like claws, almost the same colour as the silver.

Sirius considers his answer. _You have to think, Sirius._ Evenly, he replies, "The Potters invited me to their party weeks ago, and I accepted. I didn't know Aunt Elladora was going to have a ball." _That sounds reasonable. Hear that, Moony? I'm being bloody reasonable._

"Why have you not mentioned this engagement before now?"

Even if the Potters were having a party, and even if he had accepted an invitation weeks ago, he wouldn't have written to his parents about it. He hasn't written to his parents since third year. But his mother always pretends that this isn't the case, always asks him why he didn't mention this or tell her that.

Before Sirius can think of a suitable lie, his mother turns to Regulus, who sits straighter and lowers his fork carefully. "And you?"

Regulus blinks, his expression plainly asking, _And me, what?_

But their mother says nothing; she simply waits. At the other end of the table, their father sips his wine.

"I -- " He stops and glances quickly at Sirius, his expression unreadable. "I heard that the Potters weren't having a party this year."

Sirius sits forward so quickly he jars the table. His wine sloshes in the silver goblet, dripping down the side and staining the white table cloth. "Well, you clearly heard wrong," he snaps angrily. Regulus meets Sirius' eyes and sips his wine. Scowling, Sirius leans back and crosses his arms over his chest. "They invited me ages ago."

His mother goes on as if neither of her sons has spoken. "I have assured Elladora that four will attend. It will not do to retract."

"You don't have to retract. It's just me."

"Your father and I have struggled to maintain this family's reputation despite certain…circumstances beyond our control," his mother continues. Sirius knows these words; he recognises this speech. "In these times, our friends and acquaintances are watching. We must share the responsibility of presenting an appropriate appearance to those who will notice any…discrepancy."

"Discrepancy?" Sirius repeats, incredulous. "It's just a party. It's not--"

"There is also the question," Sirius' father interrupts, his voice slow and emotionless from the other end of the table, "of unnecessary interaction with those who offer no advantage. While we cannot monitor your time at school, it is not unreasonable for us to expect our sons maintain relations with only the most suitable peers."

"Unnecessary -- they're my _friends._" Sirius hears his voice rising, knows that he shouldn't shout, but he can't stop himself. "I don't care about--"

"If, perhaps," his father continues, his tone as dry as dust, "there were some indication that one is willing to utilise one's rather unique position amongst certain unpredictable elements of the wizarding world, this insistence upon rebellious socialisation might be excused."

Sirius gapes at his father. The man is unmoving, wine glass raised in his right hand, his dark eyes fixed at some point in the distance. "I'm not being rebellious," he retorts. "They're my friends. I'm not -- I don't _use_ my friends--" Sirius stops abruptly. He notices that he's picked up his fork and is holding it in his fist, threatening the potatoes or table linen or maybe the candlesticks. He sets it down forcefully, and the plates on the table jump. "Look. It's just a party. That's all. A New Year's party. It's not -- it's just for fun."

"Don't be ridiculous," his mother snaps. Her voice carries a hint of cold laughter that sends a chill through Sirius. "You are too old for childish outings."

"I'm sixteen!"

"You have responsibilities to this family, and it is time for you to acknowledge them. You will start by trimming your hair and attending Elladora's ball. There is nothing more to discuss."

"We haven't discussed anything! You just talked…talked over me." Sirius' voice trails off at the end of the sentence.

The dining room is suddenly silent. His father sips his wine. His mother stares at the candles, two golden spots burning in her pupils. Regulus is still looking at Sirius, not quite smiling, but close enough.

Sirius pushes his chair back and stands up.

"You have not been excused from this table," his mother says, looking at him finally. Her voice quavers.

"I don't care. I'm excusing myself!" His voice cracks in the middle of the sentence, and Sirius strides out of the dining room before he can see the flare of anger in her eyes.

He runs up the stairs, knowing that it's immature to stomp on each as loudly as possible, but doing it anyway. Bursting into his room, he surprises a house-elf creeping on the floor by the bed. Sirius glares at the elf and points to the open door. "Get out," he growls.

The elf bows and begins to back away. "Kreacher is just tidying Master's--"

"I don't want you to tidy anything, ever! Get out!"

Sirius slams the door behind the house-elf and throws himself onto the bed. Fury trembles through him, but he moves only to stuff the pillow into a more comfortable position. He doesn't know what he expected -- his mother to wave her hand and say, "Yes, you may go"?

_I should have known,_ he scolds himself angrily, _She hasn't changed her fucking mind in about twenty years. Doesn't even know how, does she? Thinking isn't part of the pureblood training. Merlin knows we don't want anyone getting ideas._

It never changes. Lips move, voices sound, words float across the dining room table, disturbing the Ever-Burning Candles but passing the people without so much as a pause, without a flinch of acknowledgement or recognition. They might be talking to the walls, to the house-elf heads, to the silver goblets and bitter wine, for all the good it does to talk to one another. Even when they fight, even when his mother's eyes flash wildly, even when they shout themselves hoarse slinging insults and demands past one another, it always ends with an abrupt silence, falling like a cashmere cloak, stifling them in its folds.

Rolling over, Sirius feels the crinkle of his letter to James in his pocket. He pulls it out and looks at it for a moment. He considers adding to it, telling James what his parents have said. The way his mother's mind works, she might just write to the Potter's for confirmation about the party anyway.

But Sirius decides to send the letter as is; he isn't quite ready to admit his parents have won. _And it's Remus I should tell if I can't go,_ Sirius reasons. The thought makes his chest tighten uncomfortably. He wonders if Remus will believe that he actually tried, that he isn't just backing out because something else came up. Sirius can't remember if he's ever told Remus about his parents or Aunt Elladora or anything that really matters, and he feels the beginnings of panic. _I have to go. Fuck my parents. Fuck Aunt Elladora. I have to go._

He'll owl James. He'll be quiet and polite tonight before the guests. He'll change his clothes and trim his hair and be the bloody good son they want and--

_They won't change their minds._ They never do. But Sirius sits up and pushes the thought from his mind; he has almost two weeks, after all. He'll think of something.

In the hallway, as he's going down to the garden where the owls are kept, Sirius meets Regulus.

"Where're you going?" Regulus asks, narrowing his eyes and standing aside.

"Why? So you can tell _her_?"

Regulus waves his hand dismissively. "Don't be stupid. She didn't even hear me."

"Well, you should keep your bloody mouth shut about things that have nothing to do with you."

Regulus smirks. "Merlin, Sirius, what the hell's your problem today? Got your knickers in a twist just because they won't let you go to some stupid party?"

"It's not just some stupid party," Sirius snarls. "It's -- didn't you even hear what he said? _Utilise_ my friends?"

"He wasn't talking about your real friends," Regulus says, rolling his eyes. "Just the mudbloods."

"Don't you dare--" Sirius takes a menacing step toward his brother. Regulus steps back, bumping his elbow into the wall, and Sirius laughs humourlessly. "God, you're just like them. You know which ones really don't matter? Mudbloods and second sons." Sirius turns away and leaves Regulus standing in the corridor.

The afternoon is dark and bitterly cold as Sirius hurries across the garden to the owls. It still isn't snowing properly, just a few dry flakes swirling around. He wakes one of the less bloodthirsty birds and gives it the letter, wincing at the grumpy nip to his fingers. The owl takes flight and disappears over the high, leafless hedges that surround the garden.

Sirius walks slowly back to the house, noticing that the weeds have pushed apart the bricks in the path, and moss has stained the base of the white stone bench under the willow in the corner. A bright memory flutters at the edge of his mind: his mother in a wide-brimmed hat and white gloves, kneeling beside a bed of brilliant red and yellow tulips; a green blanket spread on the grass; a giggling, crawling, drooling Regulus in blue and white stripes; and the warm scents of sunshine, baby powder and freshly-turned earth.

He remembers solemnly digging a hole to bury his gobstones, drawing a detailed treasure map on a scrap of parchment, carefully labelling the landmarks of the garden: _Flowers. Tree. Bench. Mum. Owls._ A fat black X, a winding trail, a skull and crossbones.

_Mum, where's Bar -- Barb -- ? That place where the pirates go?_

_Barbados, dear. It's in the Caribbean. I'll show you on the globe when we go inside._

Something moves in one of the upstairs windows. Sirius looks up, expecting to see his mother, but it is only the edge of a curtain shifting in one of the unused rooms on the third floor. The house-elves keep those rooms clean for guests, but there haven't been overnight guests in the house since his mother's cousins visited for Christmas four years ago.

The cold iron doorknob stings his bare hand as he pulls the door open. In the dim hallway at the back of the house, Sirius shivers and rubs his arms energetically. A pair of large round eyes watch him from a shadowed doorway. Sirius glares at the house-elf, and it vanishes silently into the dark room.

He walks slowly through the house, pausing at the bottom of the stairs with his hand on the banister. The portraits on the surrounding walls are hushed and still, lit only by the meagre light of the serpentine chandelier. Eyes blink, hands shift, heads tilt, but the portrait occupants barely move, and they never speak. They are still posing for the artist, years after the paint has dried. His mother looks down imperiously, young and elegant in a blue dress, her blonde hair twisted in an intricate knot beneath a black cap; her pale eyes follow Sirius and her mouth twists distastefully. An old man in a pointed gold hat dozes by a tall, dripping candle, the hairs of his grey beard and the flame both gently stirring in a slight breeze.

Another painting depicts the four members of Sirius' immediate family. His mother is wearing dark green and sitting in a wing-backed chair, frowning slightly and looking at something just beyond the edge of the painting. His father stands behind her, his hand resting on the chair, tall and imposing in tailored robes, his black hair streaked with silver. He, too, is staring at something outside the painting, blinking thoughtfully but otherwise perfectly still. Sirius and Regulus stand beside their mother's chair; Sirius is fidgeting restlessly, shifting his weight and tugging at the sleeves of his robes, looking around and opening his mouth to speak but silently closing it when his mother's grip tightens on the arm of her chair. Only Regulus looks pleased to be in the portrait, his five-year-old self drawn up as tall as he can manage, bouncing slightly on his toes in an attempt to be taller. He's grinning widely, as if he's about the burst with some grand little boy secret. But Regulus, like Sirius, remains quiet, aware of their mother's long fingers on the brocaded arm of the chair.

Sirius raps his knuckles quietly against the dark wood and runs up a few steps, then stops mid-stride and changes his mind. He grabs his cloak from the alcove off the entrance hall; the spindly wooden fingers of the coat rack release the fabric and curl back into a knotted fist.

Opening the front door quietly, Sirius listens for any sound from within the house. Hearing nothing, he steps into the cold and closes the door softly behind him. The serpent knocker hisses.

Pulling the cloak over his shoulders, Sirius walks away from the house, resisting the urge to glance back and see if his mother is watching from her drawing room window. He doesn't want to add "frequent, unnecessary excursions into Muggle London" to the list of his transgressions growing ever longer in her mind, but the silent afternoon stretches before him, blending into the night, the dinner party that is certain to be less than pleasant, and the two endless weeks ahead.

He exhales, breath opaque in the crisp winter air, then scowls and kicks at a crack in the pavement. Grimmauld Place used to be respectable and distinguished. The row houses are large, with ornate facades and tall windows, but the grandeur has gradually given way to grime and decay. Sirius' parents blame Muggles for the defacement of the neighbourhood. The old wizarding families left, and the Muggles moved in, filling the streets with cars and the houses with buzzing electronic gadgets. No one cares for the gardens anymore; the hedges are untrimmed; the paint is peeling; the windows are smudged.

But his parents refuse to leave the ancestral home. Instead, they layer charms upon wards, illusions upon protections. They keep the curtains closed.

He turns a corner, allowing his feet to carry him aimlessly. Their mother may not have acknowledged Regulus' comment at lunch, but she heard -- she always hears -- and she will remember. She will remember that Sirius lied and fumbled; she collects his slips, like the dried flowers and silver daggers in her drawing room. He just wishes that Regulus would learn to keep his bloody mouth _shut._ The kid spouts off whatever's on his mind--

_You have to think, Sirius. You never think._

\--and he says the stupidest things, all the time. _Not your real friends. Just the mudbloods._ Sirius remembers vividly the moment he learned that was not a word one used casually. He rubs his jaw and smiles ruefully. He considers himself lucky that eleven-year-old James didn't know any decent hexes; a punch in the face is quite a mild reprimand in the James Potter School of Teaching Somebody a Lesson. But it had worked, and Sirius had known. Two years later, when Regulus came to Hogwarts, Sirius tried to impart that knowledge to him, but Regulus had just given him the look of somebody who didn't want to be a kid brother anymore and replied, _It's just a word. Who cares?_

Sirius thinks, _That's just the problem, isn't it?_ Even the people who don't care, do; they care just enough to scatter the words like leaves and haughtily walk away. And the people who care, who really care, they punch their roommates in the face--

_I don't even know what's important to you. I don't know why you act like you do._

\--but the others, they go on and on about blood and heritage, about weakening the magical race, when anyone with half a brain can do the maths and see that it doesn't matter if your parents are wizards or Muggles or flobberworms, it doesn't even matter if--

_Not human. Not rational. Dangerous, bloodthirsty, ravenous._

Sirius stops at an intersection. While the streets are familiar he isn't entirely certain where he is. The light has failed, but it still isn't snowing. The air is too still, too cold for snow. The evening seems to be holding its breath.

_I don't know what I can say to make you understand. You've seen me, Sirius._

"Oi, nice coat!"

Two children are snickering on the front steps of a ramshackle row house. They're both wearing threadbare jackets with mittens pinned to the sleeves, and neither has a hat. The boy's blond hair sticks up in all directions; the little girl's plaits are tied with ragged red ribbons. Her nose is running rivers, but rather than wiping it she just sniffs powerfully and stares at Sirius.

"You wearing your mum's dress?" the boy, about ten, asks.

The girl giggles, her laughter disconcertingly bright and musical, and sniffs again. Sirius winces at the thought of all those bogeys.

His fine woollen cloak was magically stitched by Adele Fabienne &amp; Co. _Superior Attire for the Discerning Witch and Wizard. Paris -- London -- Milan._ Sirius' mother will only take her sons to Prospero's Alley when Adele herself is in the shop, peering owlishly from behind her thick spectacles, surrounded by a cloud of threaded needles that dart and flash like fishes in the candlelight.

The kids are still staring.

The boy snorts. "Don't ya have any boy clothes?"

"Don't you have any clothes that weren't dug out of a dustbin?" Sirius scowls at the kids, wishing he had a handkerchief for the girl or a Disillusionment Charm for himself. "Or is that the style these days? Very dashing, those ugly patches and trousers that don't cover your socks."

"Fuck you, you soddin' nancy."

"Fuck yourself, you filthy brat. And happy Christmas."

Sirius turns back toward Grimmauld Place.

The house is quiet when he lets himself in, although he hears the faint noise of his mother's portrait hissing her disapproval. He goes up to his bedroom and lies on the bed for a long time, not bothering to light the candles or remove his cloak, until he hears the clock strike seven. Then Sirius rises and dresses himself in clean, respectable robes, combs his hair, straightens his collar, and meets Regulus in the hallway as they both go down to the sitting room.

There will be drinks and polite conversation when the Dolohovs arrive, thirty minutes precisely orchestrated while the house-elves prepare the dining room. There will be discussion of politics at supper. Regulus and Sirius will speak only when spoken to, and the Dolohovs will praise the meal. His parents will accept the compliments as though his mother had cooked the meal herself and his father had bottled the wine. After dinner, the men will go into the study, the women will retire to the drawing room, and Sirius and Regulus will return to their bedrooms. Everyone will be poised, calm, gracious and well-mannered.

Sirius will be bored senseless.

He yawns, and his mother glares at him across the sitting room. The only sound is the ticking of the great clock. It is a relief when the door-charm sounds, warning them that the guests are approaching. Sirius hears the scuttle of house-elf feet in the entrance hall, followed by the high-pitched welcome and the click of Lady Dolohov's heels on the wooden floor. The guests appear in the door to the sitting room, and the hushed scene springs to life. The men shake hands, the women kiss the air beside each others' faces. Sirius has always thought Lord and Lady Dolohov are an amusingly mismatched couple; she is tall and reed-thin, her mouth puckered in a perpetual frown, while he is short, chubby and always willing to engage in a cheerful argument about Quidditch.

Sirius and Regulus stand quietly until Lord Dolohov notices them and shakes their hands in turn. "And how go your studies, young man?" Lord Dolohov asks Sirius, as he always does.

"Very well, thank you," Sirius answers promptly. He remembers the script. Prompted by his mother's rapid glance, he adds, "How is Antonin doing these days?" He already knows, more or less, what Antonin Dolohov has been up to since he left Hogwarts three years ago. Mr. Potter told James about an incident -- though he wouldn't share the details, no matter how the boys begged -- involving a young witch and an illegal potion. But Sirius enjoys watching Lord Dolohov lie a little.

"Oh, quite well, thank you," Lord Dolohov replies, looking away quickly and sitting down. He accepts a goblet of wine from a house-elf. "He's been in Romania for a few months now," _Where the Ministry can't get him,_ Sirius thinks, "working with a group of researchers. He was quite pleased," Lord Dolohov turns away from Sirius and faces Regulus, "to hear that Slytherin is favoured for the Cup this year."

Sirius opens his mouth to contradict -- there's no way Sytherin will beat Ravenclaw in the spring match -- but his mother is glaring at him and he bites his tongue. Lord Dolohov and Regulus begin chatting amiably about Quidditch. Regulus has always been better at small talk with adults than Sirius.

Lady Dolohov is telling Sirius' mother about the Dolohov's holiday in France. "…rather alarming, in fact, the leniency with which some of the old families raise their children. Madame Beauvoir is a very dear friend, but she simply doesn't understand the peril of allowing her daughters to go about with all manner of young man. The people we met in their house! Why, there were young people there who had no families at all."

Sirius' mother shakes her head sympathetically. "It is alarming. But that country has always been more _free-thinking,_" she says the word as if it tastes foul on her tongue, "and we have tried to limit our exposure to such relaxed standards."

"I do believe the youngest daughter is entertaining the notion of _marrying_ one of these young men," Lady Dolohov confides, lowering her voice. "I have told Morgaine that she must put a stop to that nonsense, lest the entire family risk being branded blood-traitors...." Lady Dolohov's voice trails off. "Of course," she adds quickly, "if the family makes its position quite clear, the rash actions of the children will be seen as just that -- foolish rebellion. Your own recent troubles, for example."

"Certainly," Sirius' mother agrees. "A swift and unyielding stance is all that is required to deal with untoward elements of the family."

"Yes, precisely. When the unseemly component has been removed--"

"Her name is Andromeda."

Five sets of eyes turn to Sirius.

He scowls. "She's not an _untoward element._ She's Andromeda. If you're going to talk about her, you should at least use her name."

After an uncomfortable silence, Sirius' mother snaps, "That was uncalled for. Apologise to Lady Dolohov immediately."

Sirius says nothing.

"You will apologise immediately."

He crosses his arms over his chest and remains silent.

Lady Dolohov blinks and clears her throat. "Do not trouble yourself. Young men are often thoughtless and impertinent. Indeed," she turns back to Sirius' mother, fully ignoring Sirius, "Antonin tells us that, in Romania, there are young men who will become acquainted with -- even court -- young women, without once disclosing that they aren't human! Imagine the horror of being a mother in such a place, where your daughter could take up with someone like that."

Sirius swallows another angry retort and turns determinedly away from Lady Dolohov. His father and Lord Dolohov are discussing finances, as they always do, and Regulus is listening attentively -- or pretending to.

"Now, I have nothing against the goblins, you see," Lord Dolohov says, leaning back in his chair and tilting his goblet thoughtfully. "As an institution Gringotts is respectable, of course, and it has never been otherwise. But I must say, I am alarmed at the current state of things."

"It is an imbalance of power, to be sure," Sirius' father agrees, his expression animated as it is only when he's engaged in conversations about politics and money. "An arrangement entrenched in history, unfortunately, and one that few are willing to disrupt, despite the inherent instability."

"It wasn't--" Regulus begins, then stops abruptly when his father looks at him, as if startled to discover that his youngest son can speak.

"Yes, lad?" Lord Dolohov asks kindly.

"It wasn't until after the goblins stopped fighting amongst themselves did they begin to consolidate the banks." Sitting forward, Regulus began speaking more confidently, "It was Gruvius Gringott, in Berlin, who convinced the other goblin leaders that they would benefit from concentrating on forming a single, powerful bank."

_Well,_ Sirius thinks, surprised, _that brings the number of Hogwarts students who pay attention in History of Magic to a grand total of three._

Lord Dolohov is nodding in agreement, his head bobbing on a thick neck. "Quite right, quite right. The boy's got a good head on his shoulders," he says to Sirius' father.

Regulus smiles, pleased by the compliment, then glances at Sirius triumphantly.

"Yes," their father says slowly, looking from Regulus to Lord Dolohov. "But that merely emphasises the danger of allowing a single institution or ideology control so significant a portion of wizarding society. Goblins are creatures of greed; that is their primary characteristic. Their interests have been aligned with ours in recent years, but to trust that such a state will continue unchanged is to ignore their very nature."

"Quite right," Lord Dolohov says again. "But what do you suggest? It would take quite an upset to convince the influential families to place their trust in an institution other than Gringotts."

Bored, Sirius tunes out the conversation. It has always been his greatest failing as a son of the House of Black, he muses, that he finds talk about money dead dull and would rather wrestle a graphorn than spend any time debating politics. _But I am behaving,_ he tells himself, sipping his wine. _I'm behaving so bloody well you'd think I was one of those Malfoy creeps who memorise etiquette books for fun. Just a couple more hours of pretending that I'm deaf and dumb, and everybody's happy, right?_

"…she will make a lovely bride," Lady Dolohov was saying, touching a bony hand to her neck and sighing. "So fair and dainty, she does take after her mother."

_Oh, Merlin,_ Sirius groans inwardly. _Narcissa's wedding._ It is the other topic of conversation that makes him gnash his teeth and imagine hot pokers driven into his eyes, because that is far more pleasant. Clearly Lady Dolohov has never played chess or gobstones with Narcissa; "fair and dainty" weren't exactly the words Sirius would apply to his cousin who often resorted to drawing blood with her fingernails when a game wasn't going her way.

"Yes, it will be the event of the season," Sirius' mother says. She is looking at the fire, not at Lady Dolohov, and her voice is completely devoid of emotion.

"And just what the London society needs in these troubled times," Lady Dolohov adds. "The joining of two great families, a symbol of solidarity in the face of recent…disturbing trends." Her glance at Sirius is quick, but he sees it and scowls. Lady Dolohov seems more bewildered than disturbed by whatever trends are fixed in her mind behind those rapidly moving eyes. "It is reassuring to see young people demonstrate a respect for tradition."

"We do try to instill in our children the importance of such respect. Just this afternoon we were discussing Elladora's upcoming ball, and we have agreed that we shall attend as a family, as is proper." Sirius' mother looks at him directly.

He meets her eyes and does not respond.

"Alas, you are a rarity, as we learned whilst travelling abroad." Lady Dolohov purses her lips distastefully. "I am grateful that our own Antonin understands that there are tenets of polite society that simply cannot be compromised. There are far too many modern families abroad -- parents and children alike -- who have no appreciation of proper boundaries."

The men are listening to the conversation, and Sirius sees Lord Dolohov shift uncomfortably and lower his jowly face to sip his wine.

"I fear," Sirius' father injects solemnly, "that there are many who would see England become such a place."

"Agreed," Lord Dolohov says loudly, sitting up and clearing his throat. Raising his goblet expressively, he continues, "Take, for instance, this continual quibbling about 'beasts' and 'beings.' I fail to understand why there is a debate at all. An animal is an animal, a man is a man -- oh, careful, lad, you'll spill your wine."

Sirius sets his wine glass carefully on the side table and wipes his hand on his robe.

"That is a perfect example," Lady Dolohov pronounces firmly, apparently oblivious to her husband's look of obvious relief that the subject has been successfully changed. "It would be much simpler if the Dark Creature Registries were made public. I am so very uncomfortable travelling through the countryside not knowing which estates belong to vampires. And there are days I simply cannot stomach a stroll through Diagon Alley; I never know if the appalling man beside me in the shop is a part-giant, or a werewolf, or simply a slovenly Mudblood. Frankly, it is both distasteful and disconcerting, to not know whether these creatures are properly kept. Mandatory identification would solve so many problems."

"Solve what problems?" Sirius asks angrily. "Just because you -- "

"Quiet!" his mother snaps. She sets her goblet down with a thud.

He ignores her. "Just because you find them _distasteful_?"

"Young man--"

Talking over Lord Dolohov's exclamation, Sirius sits forward and sneers at Lady Dolohov's shocked expression. "What, are you afraid that some -- some person will decide to rip your arms off while he's out doing his shopping? Why don't you just shut yourself in your house, then, and--"

"Silence!" His mother stands up, her pale eyes flashing, and takes a step forward.

"You will not speak to our guests like that." His father's voice is stern and cold.

Sirius looks from one parent to the other in the sudden silence; both of them are glaring at him fiercely, anger barely contained behind iron composure. He pushes himself to his feet. "Why the hell not? I don't want to listen to this fucking rubbish. If you people think it's so dangerous and distasteful, why don't you all bugger off and build a sodding colony for pureblooded idiots where--"

"Young man, you are being quite irrational," Lord Dolohov interrupts. "We are merely expressing our opinions. If you wish to defend monsters and-- "

"--you will not do it in this house, and not before our guests," Sirius' mother interrupts. "This was a civilised discussion until you began acting like a child. You are not permitted to speak such nonsense--"

"Nonsense? Talking about people like they're people is nonsense?"

"Well, they hardly qualify -- "

Sirius spins around and glares down at Lady Dolohov. "You don't know what the fuck you're talking about! How the hell do you know who _qualifies_ as people if you're too bloody stupid to--"

"That is enough! Your behaviour is appalling."

Sirius meets his mother's cold blue eyes and opens his mouth to reply.

"You do not believe what you are saying," his father says, standing as well, "and your self-indulgent tantrum has no place in polite conversation."

Sirius gapes at him. "My -- I don't believe? How the hell do you know what I believe? I don't care about bloody polite -- I don't care about--"

His mother takes a step forward and Sirius flinches back. "You will be silent!" she shrieks, her self-control finally breaking. Her hands are in fists at her side. _She doesn't have her wand,_ he thinks wildly.

Sirius steps back again. _She doesn't have her wand and I'm taller than her and this is so bloody ridiculous and_ \-- "You can choke on your fucking polite conversation," he snarls, then wheels around and leaves the room.

He runs up the stairs to his bedroom. Slamming the door hard enough to make the walls tremble, Sirius stands in the middle of the room, breathing heavily. He runs a hand through his hair and notices that the room has been tidied again; the duvet is smooth, the quills stored away, and the pile of clothing on the floor has been removed.

"I'm thinking," he says quietly. Sirius exhales slowly. "Fuck. I'm thinking."

He wrenches the wardrobe open and pulls his duffle bag from where it's stored on the shelf. "So I don't _know_ what I fucking believe, do I?" he mutters. He piles his school things into the bag with one sweep of his arm, then tosses his clothes atop the mess of books, quills and parchment. "Go ahead and say it -- Mudblood-lovers, beasts and monsters and fucking _traitors_ \-- it's just _words_\--" His broom is leaning in the corner; he grabs it, then takes his wand from his bedside table and shoves it in his pocket. He looks around the room. He thinks of things elsewhere in the house, tries to remember if there's anything he'll miss. "I don't care," he whispers. "I don't fucking care."

Sirius drags his bag from the room and down the stairs, his books thudding noisily on the wooden treads. The bumping racket stirs the portraits in the entrance hall; they begin to point and whisper.

"Where are you going?"

His parents stand in the hallway, outside the sitting room. Regulus and the Dolohovs are just behind them, three faces watching in shock.

"I'm leaving," Sirius replies. He pulls the front door open.

"Don't be ridiculous," his mother says sharply. Her nostrils flare as she inhales.

"I'm leaving."

"If you leave this house," his father begins. Sirius pauses and looks back. He has never heard his father's voice shake like that before. "If you leave this house, you will never come back."

Sirius waits, but his father says nothing more. "Works for everybody, then, doesn't it?" He pulls his bag through the door without looking back.

The door slams shut behind him, and the silver snake hisses.

Sirius drags his duffle down the walkway and starts up Grimmauld Place. Two houses down, he pauses to remove his robes and put on an old jumper that will pass well enough for Muggle. He zips the bag closed, then looks back at Number Twelve. No light shines from the windows, not even a glimmer through the heavy curtains. He shoulders the duffle, picks up his broom, and walks away.

As Sirius turns the corner from Grimmauld Place, the snow begins to fall.


End file.
